I Miss You Most At Christmastime
by Jedi Tess of Gryffindor
Summary: Harry reflect on the concept of family while celebrating Christmas at the Burrow. A simple, not as Christmas-y as I’d like one-shot. post-OOTP


I Miss You Most At Christmastime 

By Jedi Tess of Gryffindor

Summary: Harry reflect on the concept of family while celebrating Christmas at the Burrow. A simple, not as Christmas-y as I'd like one-shot.

Disclaimer: Joy to the world – J.K. has come! Let fans – receive – their queen! Right – we love you, J.K.! You rock our pathetic, magic-less worlds! We would never try to take any of your ideas or characters, as we'd crap them up generally.

A/N: My other Christmas fic. It's not that Christmas-y and has no romance to speak of. _I _like it, though. Anyway, happy Christmas to you and yours! Be well! Get your flu shot ^_^

~*~

Whilst Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy were covering themselves and a good portion of the Hogwarts kitchens in green, red, and white frosting and a similar variety of sprinkles and gumdrops, Harry Potter was sitting on a roof.

Back at the Burrow for Christmas – back home. Thanks to the increasingly horrific threat of Voldemort and his supporters, the stability of the wizarding world was crumbling. The Ministry was sagging under the pressure from both Voldemort and its own panicking citizens demanding that some sort of action – _any_ sort – be taken to prevent another massacre like that of a little under twenty years ago.

With the weight of such a threat to contend with, the Ministry was very naturally leaning on the one hope for the survival of the wizarding world – Harry.

In Harry's hands rested the fates of countless unknown people – and their families and friends and acquaintances. He alone could destroy Voldemort – he alone could end it all. A seventeen-year-old wizard who hadn't even completed school, and already he was being asked to do the impossible – to _be_ the impossible. 

It should have made him numb – miserable – depressed – hell, suicidal tendencies would have been understandable. 

In fact, he had suffered from all of these symptoms at one or more points since the news of his immeasurable importance had been broken to him by Dumbledore not even two years ago. He'd been completely numb for the remainder of his fifth year; completely miserable the summer before his sixth year; genuinely depressed and hopeless most of his sixth year; and very nearly suicidal toward the end of that year. 

But now, the Christmas holiday of his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, he could honestly say that he had truly come to terms with the responsibilities he was destined to carry with him, possibly for the rest of his life. He knew what he had to do, and the knowledge had become a heavy weight in the back of his mind. But that was where he kept it – tucked away for the day when he would need it. He'd done his sulking. He'd cried, yelled, broken things, cried some more, and tried to slit his wrists. 

Finally, he had _accepted_ – and with incredible grace – what he'd come to think of as the final task of his life. He would be ready when the time came to fight Voldemort. He would be ready so that he could save those he loved – and so that he himself would have a chance at a better life. A life without the burden of such incredible responsibility – a life that really belonged to him.

This acceptance had created a kind of calm inside Harry. It was a quiet peace that was the very center of his day-to-day life. He clung to it, cherished it, and fed it with happy images of the magical day when he was _done with his final task and the world was once again a safe place for all._

However, his task was not what had brought Harry out to stare ruefully at the star pocked sky on Christmas Eve. 

He watched a shooting star flash passed, trailing its glow over a blanket of velvety black. Shouts of laughter and a crash came from inside the Burrow, almost simultaneous to the star's passage – Harry grinned. That would be Nymphadora Tonks, quite probably tipsy from some brew of Mr. Weasley's. 

The group gathered in the Burrow below him was made up of arguably the most heavily involved fighters in the Order of the Phoenix. On their shoulders the burden of saving the world had been since Harry had returned from the graveyard at the end of his fourth year. They were the original Order; those who had banded together again the instant they had received Dumbledore's urgent call. 

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there, along with all of their sons. Ginny was, of course, still at Hogwarts. Hermione had insisted on spending the holiday at the Burrow with Harry and Ron, although her parents had desperately wanted her with them. As a compromise, Hermione had dragged them with her to the Burrow for the entire week leading up to Christmas. Remus Lupin was there, along with Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher, and several other Aurors Harry only knew by name. Amazingly enough, Professor McGonagall and Rubeus Hagrid had been able to get away from Hogwarts for Christmas Eve. 

"Harry!" Harry turned slightly, glancing back at the trapdoor that led up to the roof through the attic. Hermione was clambering through. 

"Hi," Harry called quietly, watching her make her way carefully down the slippery rooftop. 

"What're you doing out here?" his friend demanded. "It's below freezing – and you've not even got a coat on!"

In stark contract, Hermione was clad in a sweater, fleece-lined jacket, scarf, gloves, and a Santa hat.

"Lupin set up a warming charm on this spot for me a couple of nights ago," Harry assured her, smiling faintly at her maternal tone. 

"Still," Hermione said, taking a careful seat beside him. "You'll catch cold with the draft. And it's so slick up here! You could have slipped and fallen three stories!"

"You're fussing," he cut her off, nudging her playfully.

"Well, _someone_ has to!" Hermione retorted, nudging back. "You don't take care of yourself, after all."

"I think I do all right," he shot back.

"I'll bet," was the cryptic response.

It was true that Hermione spent a lot of time looking out for Harry. She didn't baby him, exactly, but she had made it her business to know where Harry was, what he was doing, and what mood he was in since a certain unpleasant incident that she had walked in on just seven months previously. 

"So," his best girl friend said after they'd sat in companionable silence for a moment. "Why're you sitting out here in the freezing cold by yourself on Christmas Eve?"

Harry shrugged. Hermione sighed.

"Come on, Harry," she prodded gently, giving his arm a squeeze. "Why aren't you inside with us watching Tonks and McGonagall getting smashed?"

"_McGonagall_'s getting smashed?"  Harry laughed heartily at the mentally image.

"I – I think so," Hermione giggled, apparently also tickled with the idea. "At first, I thought she was just being friendly. But now – well, I think Ron's considering using tonight as blackmail for next term. She's said some very – er, silly things."

Harry sniggered, the thought of their Head of House – and dear friend, really, after all they'd been through together – who had probably only got drunk because she was too polite to refuse Mr. Weasley's brew. 

"And Ron?" Harry chortled. "He shattered as well?"

"Oh, no," Hermione said, and Harry could see the ghostly outline of her frown through the darkness. "He's been a bit quiet, really. I'm not sure what's up with him."

"Bet I know." Harry grinned at her. 

"What?" she asked, staring curiously up at him.

"'Who're you going the Yule Ball with, Hermione?'" he mimicked in a falsetto that sounded nothing at all like Ron.

"Oh, would you come off it?" she said, and Harry knew she was blushing. "You're been on that stupid notion since Department of Mysteries catastrophe."

"It's not stupid," Harry told her, rolling his eyes. "All I can say is, I hope one of you finds the enchanted Mistletoe Fred and George stuck up somewhere."

"Shut it," she said, punching his arm in a most un-Hermione show of violence. "Anyway, Ron wouldn't dare try anything like that with my dad down there."

"Why? What's wrong with your dad?" Harry asked. He'd actually quite liked the good-natured Mr. Granger.

"Nothing, but it's this myth that some boys have about girls' dads," Hermione told him. "It's this idea that dads are their daughters' bodyguards and in order to get to the daughter, the guy has to impress her dad – prove that he's worthy."

"That's stupid," Harry said. "Why would a girl's dad care – "

"I don't know any girls whose dads _do," Hermione said, shaking her head. "__My dad could care less. Anyway, he really likes the Weasleys; Ron, especially. You saw how he and Mr. Weasley hit it off over toaster ovens."_

Harry grinned at the memory of Mr. Weasley's warm greeting of the Grangers, and his immediate response to Mr. Granger's generous offer of an old toaster oven for study. Undoubtedly Hermione had suggested it as an appropriate Christmas gift for the eager Mr. Weasley, as it was an older brand that had _two_ plugs. 

"I'm so glad my parents are here this year," Hermione said softly. The comment wiped the smile from Harry's face, replacing it with a look of pain, which he was glad Hermione could not see in the dark.

Perhaps she couldn't see it, but she seemed to sense a change in atmosphere, because she shifted and Harry knew she was looking intently at him  

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!" she whispered. "I didn't mean – I wasn't thinking, I'm so – "

"Forget it – of course you're glad your parents are with you this year," Harry jumped in quickly, trying to speak nonchalantly. Inadvertently, Hermione had stumbled upon the reason for Harry's seclusion from the festivities below.

"Yes, but – oh, Harry!" Her voice was shaking. "It really was a thoughtless thing to say."

Harry didn't speak for a moment.   

"That's what's bothering you, isn't it?" she said in a small voice. Harry had only a moment to wonder at her intuitive abilities before she went on. "Do you – do you miss your parents, Harry?"

Harry sighed, staring sadly out at the twinkling landscape that was now half-hidden by patchy clouds.

"How can you miss something you've never had?" he murmured at last. He was hoping Hermione could tell him, because he really _wanted to miss them. His mum, with her radiant red hair and bright green eyes, just like his. His dad, whom he'd come to look more and more alike every day. _

"Dunno," Hermione answered. "Can you?"

"Dunno." Harry sighed again, a frustrated noise, and lay back on the roof. He tucked his arms behind his head.

"I don't think I miss _them_," Harry said quietly. "I never knew them, did I? I – think it might be the idea of them. You know, _my_ family. Everyone else has one, what can't I? I think that's what I want." He had, in fact, been battling with himself for the entire holiday. He'd come to terms long ago with the fact of his parents being well and truly gone. He'd even begun to heal from Sirius' sudden death. But a powerful kind of ache still bit at his chest every time he thought of them, particularly over the holidays. Watching Ron and his enormous family fighting and laughing and celebrating made him want things he could never have. Parents; siblings; grandparents; _family._

He hid the pain with practiced ease while in their company. Oftentimes he could ignore it in the face of the fun he always had with the Weasleys. But sometimes the loneliness became too much, and he couldn't bear to be surrounded by the family who weren't _really_ his family. And so he escaped to his rooftop haven to gaze thoughtfully out at the starlit sky. 

"What would you miss most, Hermione?" Harry asked suddenly, rolling his head to look at her profile. "If your parents were suddenly taken from you, what would _you_ miss?" He wanted, more than anything, to know what he was missing.

Hermione stared pensively down into the Weasley's front yard, her chin propped on her hand. At last, she spoke.

"It's so hard to say," she sighed. "I guess it would be certain – I dunno – routine things that we do together. Like my mum still insisting on tucking me into bed every night when I'm home for the summer holidays. Or my dad ruffling up my hair for absolutely no reason. Or my parents taking me to Diagon Alley fro my school things." She paused. "I'm sure there's more I'd miss, but like you said, you can't know what you're missing if you've never had to miss it before."

They were silent for another moment, before she said quietly, "Family's really a very arbitrary notion, isn't it?"

"How is it arbitrary?" Harry asked in surprise. He'd always thought of family as being one of the most important things in the world.

"I don't mean that family itself is subjective," Hermione said carefully. "More what I meant was that the idea of what a family _is, of what constitutes family, is rather skewed."_

"How?" Harry asked.

"Oy, you two!"

The trapdoor onto the roof opened and a familiar red head appeared, squinting around.

"Having a little party without me?" Ron kidded, crawling through the door and closing it.

"Oh, sure," Harry returned, sitting up. "It's a laugh riot up here."

"Careful, Ron!" Hermione said sharply as he slipped a bit on the shingles.

"You're fussing," he said, taking a seat on her other side and leaning around to wink at Harry behind her back.

"So I've been told," she said, with a glower.

"So," Ron said, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "What're you two doing up here in the freezing cold?" His tone was casual enough, but Harry could just make out the anxious undertone. He tried not to grin.

"Why, Ron, I should think that was obvious," Hermione piped up, rather wickedly Harry thought.

"What?" Ron demanded, now abandoning all pretense and sounding panicky. 

"Trying to figure out where Hermione might find Fred and George's trick Mistletoe. She wants to share with you," Harry said in a breath. He ducked the very un-Hermione-like punch aimed at his arm, laughing at the horrified look he could make out on her face, even through the gloom.

"Harry!" she shrieked.

"What? It's true," he said with a shrug.

"That's funny, mate," Ron said, rather breathlessly. "So what were you really talking about?"

"Family," Hermione jumped in quickly before Harry could say anything more to embarrass her.

"Just family?" Ron said, looking vaguely disappointed. Harry was sure he'd been hoping for some daring exploit.

"Well, Harry was asking what I'd miss most about my family if I didn't have them," Hermione said quietly.

"What would _you_ miss, Ron?" Harry asked, pulling at a loose shingle.

Ron let out a long breath.

"I guess I'd miss the noise," he said at last. "I've been surrounded by it all my life. The noise and the crowd. There's always someone in the Burrow." He snorted. "It _would_ be nice to have to the extra space – "

"But between having extra space and having your family . . . ?" Harry said rather sharply. How could Ron take this so lightly?

"Hey, no contest, mate!" Ron assured him hurriedly. "And anyway, I've already kind of lost one brother, haven't I?" This was said in a rather dull voice. 

They all went silent, not really wanting to think about Percy's estrangement at a time like Christmas.

"Anyway, what's this all about, Harry?" Ron jumped into the uncomfortable gap. 

Harry sighed. What was he biting into Ron for? He was a better mate than Harry deserved, wasn't he?

"Sorry," Harry mumbled. "I – it's just – oh, I dunno."

"I was just saying how arbitrary the idea of family is," Hermione said.

"What do you mean?" Ron asked her with the same surprise in his voice that Harry had felt when she'd first said it.

"Well – define family," Hermione challenged them.

Both boys mulled it over.

"I – I reckon family is like everyone you're related to by blood and marriage, right?" Ron ventured.

"So you'd count Malfoy as family?" Hermione asked.

"What? Of course not!" said Ron in disgust.

"Well, if your mum was related to Sirius and Sirius was related to the Malfoys that makes you very distant relations by blood, doesn't it?" Hermione asked. She gave Harry an apologetic look, but he didn't really mind the mention of his godfather. Anyway, Hermione had made a very good point. If family was defined by blood and marriage alone, Ron would have been related to almost every Pureblood wizard alive. And even if he _was he would never have counted most of them as __family._

"That's sick, Hermione," Ron said, still looking extremely put out. Harry hid a smile at his friends' antics. 

"Sick, but true." Hermione nodded in a 'just so' sort of way that seemed to annoy Ron still further. "So, family isn't necessarily defined by blood and marriage."

"I suppose it might be whoever we _think of as family," Harry said thoughtfully. _

"Maybe," Hermione said. "But tell me one person who you _think of as family."_

Harry opened his mouth.

"Not just people you love, but people who fill out the 'mum', 'dad', 'brother' categories in your imaginary family tree," Hermione cut him off.

"I don't think of my close friends that way, though," Harry said. "I mean, my mum and dad will always be – well, they will always be my _real parents."_

"But there are adults down there – " Hermione indicated the floors below " – whom you would say you loved very much?"

"Yes, of course," Harry said, trying to figure out what she was getting at.

"So we know, then," Hermione went on, "that family can't necessarily be labeled, either. Just because someone is your mum or dad or sister doesn't necessarily mean they're family." She gave Ron a particularly sympathetic look that the redhead pretended he couldn't see in the dark. Hermione went on, unperturbed at their evident apprehension. 

"So what do we have left?" Hermione asked.

"No idea," said Ron promptly.

"Er – we have – um – " Harry didn't realize how comical his expression of concentration was until Ron gave a laugh and nudged him.

"Budge up, mate, your face'll stick like that."

"Oh, shut it, you great – " but Harry broke off as something cold and wet dropped onto the end of his nose. It was followed by another – and another.

"Urgh – it's started to rain," Ron groaned. "Come on inside."

"No, it hasn't," Hermione said, her voice suddenly breathless. Harry saw her outline shift as she drew her wand.

"_Lumos_," she said. In the light of her wand tip, they could see that she was quite right. It wasn't rain.

"It's snowing!" Ron said, his face splitting in a broad smile. He was right. Huge, fluffy flakes were wafting down around them, melting quickly on their hands.

"Brilliant!" Harry said.

"Bloody freezing, though," Ron said.

"You two . . . " Hermione shook her head. "Come on, come closer. We'll huddle up."

The boys slid obligingly closer, complaining loudly as the snow soaked through their jeans. Hermione put an arm around each of them and pulled them into a hug. Ron rested his head atop hers and Harry wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Ron's hand clasped Harry's shoulder across Hermione's.

Harry had no idea how long they sat huddled, watching the lawn below fill with white that was just visible through the dark. All he knew was that could have sat there with his best friends forever.

"Harry! Ron! Hermione!" 

Mrs. Weasley's voice came from under them and a moment (and a thud) later, the attic trapdoor swung up and open. Mrs. Weasley's rosy face appeared wreathed in light from the attic. 

"What on earth are you all doing up here?" she demanded, staring suspiciously around for them. And though they craned their necks to look round at her, none of them loosened the hug.

"Over here, Mum," Ron called.

"Well, you can come inside this min – " she broke off as her gaze found them at last. She stared at them, huddled together, the two boys hugging Hermione between them protectively. Then she gave a loud sniff. 

"Oh, you lot!" she cried, and Harry saw her hand go to her eyes. "You're so – so – oh, I could just – bless you, dears."

And Mrs. Weasley vanished back down the attic stairs, the trapdoor shutting behind her. 

"Barking," Ron said, shaking his shaggy head.

"We probably should go in, though," Harry said, noting that his fingers were numb, even though he had tucked them into the folds of Hermione's jacket.

"Yeah, we can come out and make a brilliant sledding run on Stoatshead Hill tomorrow," Ron said. He didn't let go of Hermione. Harry rolled his eyes and released her first. Ron was so territorial. Didn't the word 'platonic' mean anything to him?

Come to think of it, Ron probably couldn't even spell 'platonic.'

Harry led his friends back to the trapdoor and down the attic steps. The warmth inside the Burrow, even in the attic, was admittedly a relief after the arctic chill of the rooftop. They descended the attic stairs, passed the bedrooms on the third floor, and made their way down to the first, where everyone was gathered by the magnificent Christmas tree, drinking what smelt like mint cocoa.

"There you three are!" Mrs. Granger said with a smile. "We thought we were going to have to call Search and Rescue."

"Mum, Search and Rescue wouldn't be able to find their way to the attic, much less the roof," Hermione said, smiling at the older woman.

"Dare we ask what you were doing on the roof?" Lupin asked, his lip twitching into a smile as he regarded them with what Harry thought was an almost nostalgic smile. 

"Just talking. It's snowing, you know," Hermione said, taking a seat by her father.

"Is it?" Bill asked eagerly. "Well, let's hope it's a good blizzard, so we can have a game of Quidditch tomorrow."

"You want to play Quidditch in a blizzard?" Ron asked incredulously, taking a seat beside his older brother.

"It's funner in the snow," George told him. "Throw a snowball instead of the Quaffle and get your opponent totally soaked. Gets bloody freezing after a while, especially if you're playing against Charlie."

"Anything to help Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley win Gryffindor the House Cup this year!" McGonagall said emphatically. Harry noticed that she sounded very much like her usual strict, completely in-control self. Evidently, someone had broken out the sobering charms.

Harry sat down by Fred and listened with half an ear to the people chattering around him. He was more interested in watching them, though. After talking to Hermione about family, Harry couldn't quite look at any of the people in the room the same. At one time, it might have pained him to see the Weasleys in their happy, busy interactions with each other. But now, they looked different. It was hard to describe, even to himself, but Harry decided that it was their bonds that seemed different. For example, they were all very loosely bonded by their bloodline. But more importantly, they were bonded by love for each other. And Harry could feel those bonds reaching out to include himself and Hermione.

Harry watched Bill nudge Ron and nod fractionally toward Hermione, who was talking with her mum and Mrs. Weasley. Ron turned bright red and leaned toward his brother to mumble something. Harry listened to Fred and George scheming beside him, to Charlie and Mr. Weasley discussing crossbreeding of magical creatures, to Mr. Granger chatting to Professor McGonagall about Animagus, to Lupin and Tonks murmuring to each other, seemingly oblivious to everyone else in the room.  

Something about the room full of friendly faces, happy chatter, and Christmas decorations sent a sharp sensation through Harry's brain. It was as if the entire scene was changing. He wouldn't discover what that change was until the following morning.

~*~

Late that night, Mrs. Weasley silently descended the Burrow's rickety staircase. She padded through the kitchen and into the living room, careful to keep her patchwork dressing gown from swishing against the wood floor.

She smiled with a funny mixture of exasperation and pride as she passed the windowsill over the sink, where sat a great number of family photographs. Pictures of her six sons and lone daughter smiled, winked, and waved back at her as she passed, and her eyes paused on each, taking in the unique mixture of red hair and freckles that she had helped create, had helped teach and scold and love. 

She passed through the kitchen and into the sitting room, in which the seven-foot blue spruce Christmas tree sat wreathed in faery lights, strands of popcorn and cranberries, and various Christmas ornaments of different origins and materials.

Sitting before the magnificent tree, leaning back against the couch, was Harry. Mrs. Weasley could see that he was still awake. His bright eyes were gazing out the window, where snow was still invisibly blanketing the lawn. 

"Harry." 

The boy jumped, evidently so intent on whatever his reverie had been that he had not heard her approach.  

"What are you doing up, dear?"  Mrs. Weasley crossed the couch and sat down beside him, automatically reaching out to smooth his unruly dark curls.

"Dunno," he mumbled, not looking at her.

"You really ought to get up to bed, you know," she chided. "You know Santa will only come if you're all tucked up and asleep."

Harry smiled, finally looking up at her.

"I know," he said. "But I don't really need him this year."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously, her fingers still caressing his black curls.

"Well," Harry said slowly. "I know people say Santa comes only to good little girls and boys, but – I don't think so. I think he only really comes if you need him. And you know, he has come to me every year since I can remember. I usually don't find the gifts with my other stuff. Normally they're under my pillow or at the bottom of my bed. But this year – this year I don't _need_ anything. I _have everything I want."_

"Surely there must be _something_ you want, dear." Mrs. Weasley's voice was gently questioning. The trouble with Harry was that he was so difficult to read. She was never sure whether he was giving her a straight answer or masking something until she'd done a good deal of gentle prodding. It was, come to think of it, rather odd that he was talking so much tonight. As with any confession made by one of her children, Mrs. Weasley felt a twinge of maternal pride that she was being confided in.

"Not really," he told her. "I've never wanted money, and I can buy pretty much anything I really want. Oh, it's fun getting things from everyone, but I don't _need_ any of it. It's more the thought that counts."

"Are the things we want always material?" Mrs. Weasley asked very gently. She certainly hadn't missed the occasional pained look that sometimes crossed Harry's face as he watched his friends and their families.

"No, no I suppose not," he responded, sounding thoughtful. "And I guess I still wish – " but he broke off quickly, his eyes betraying him as they fixed on a clay ornament of a heart that Ginny had crafted when she was seven.

"Do you miss your parents, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley murmured, feeling a small lump in her throat. It always amazed her how much she loved this boy.

"I – well – " he faltered, as though looking for the words. Then he sighed. "Mione asked me that earlier tonight. And – " he turned suddenly to look up at her earnestly. "I'm not saying I wouldn't have liked to know them, but – I guess I miss Sirius more than I miss them." He said the last in a rush and quickly bowed his head.

"Harry," Mrs. Weasley said softly, pulling his head down to rest on her knee. He didn't resist and she continued to run a gentle hand over his shaggy hair. "Of course you miss Sirius more. You _knew him, didn't you? You knew who he was, and you knew how much he loved you." She paused, then took the plunge. "I knew your parents a little, Harry. I met your mother when she was pregnant with you. She loved you __so much, even then. She knew you were a boy, and she knew you'd be named Harry. She was even positive that you'd attend Hogwarts." Mrs. Weasley smiled ruefully. "You know she loved you, but you haven't experienced it since you were very small. It's hard to __feel that love in the same way you felt Sirius'."_

Harry was so quiet for so long that Mrs. Weasley was sure he'd fallen asleep. When he finally spoke, she jumped a bit. 

"I miss him most at Christmastime," the seventeen-year-old said very quietly, his voice husky. "He – he was the only real family I ever had, and anytime I think of Christmas, I think of family. It's hard to think that – that he might have been here – that he _should have been here celebrating with us – " He broke off, his deep voice catching._

Mrs. Weasley didn't say anything. Her throat was too tight. She simply leaned down and kissed the top of his head, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, which were shaking slightly. It was both hard and gratifying to know that Harry didn't confide these kinds of things to anyone but her. 

"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said at last, when she felt his silent sobs abate. "I know it's not quite the same, but remember that Mr. Weasley and I will always think of you as our son."

Harry's head rose quickly off her knee and she could see his eyes shining in the light from the tree. He didn't speak for a moment, but the look on his face offered infinite thanks. 

"Well," Mrs. Weasley said at length. "I think I'd best get back to bed. You'll be all right?"

"Yeah," Harry said, shifting a bit so that he was leaning back against the sofa again. 

"Good night, dear," Mrs. Weasley said, kissing his forehead and getting to her feet. She was almost out the door when Harry spoke.

"Mrs. Weasley."

"Yes, dear?"

"I – you and Mr. Weasley are the closest thing I've ever had to a family," Harry said. "And I – I just – thanks for taking me in."

"We love you very much, Harry," she told him firmly. "It's a privilege to be involved in your life in such an important way. Good night, dear."

He gave her a contented smile, which set her maternal worries to rest as she climbed back up to bed.

~*~

When Harry was awoken at dawn on Christmas morning by the sounds of Charlie, Bill, Fred, and Ron talking and pulling their stockings off the mantle over the fire, he was amazed to feel a sense of utter contentment. 

He wasn't alone. Sure, he missed Sirius and wished he'd had his biological family back. But he was surrounded by people who loved him as if they _were_ his family. No, Ron and Charlie weren't his brothers, but they were as good as. And he looked out for Ginny like he would a sister. 

And he'd spent a lot of time with Lupin and Tonks over the last couple of years to feel exceptionally close to them as well. They were rather like his doting aunt and uncle that he'd always secretly wished the Dursleys would be.

Then there was Professor McGonagall, the wily, intelligent great-aunt. And Hagrid, a big clumsy cousin. And Mad Eye, the rogue uncle.

Hesmiled. 

_This_ was his family.

~*~

It's in writing things like this that I really feel a Christmas-y glow. It's now 5:30 am and I'm going to be in deep shit when my parents come to pick me up and I'm not awake. *Sigh* It's worth it, though. I wish this was more Christmas-y, but I'm not gonna change it.

Happy Christmas! Love your family, even if they annoy your pants off! 


End file.
